CHAPTER 14
It took me a week to get the Vault's manufacturing and recycling systems up and running—another week just to convince the damn things to recognize my schematics and begin producing parts. The limitations became clear almost immediately. The system couldn't fabricate anything too sophisticated; casing, joint components, actuator brackets—yes. Anything related to processing or computation? Not a chance. It could barely print the housings, let alone functional cores.
Still recovering from the trauma at Delta, I tried to take things slow. FKSR was insistent—she monitored my vitals with unnerving precision, and any spike above baseline had her looming over me like a concerned sentinel. I wasn't in the mood to argue with a seven-and-a-half-foot Replika with a tendency to deadlift me when I disobeyed medical advice.
So, I focused on something simple. Meditative. Repair work.
The Vault's armory still held several AER-12 laser rifles in varying states of decay. Some had melted emitters. Others were shorted or lacked stable power regulators. After patching together enough working components, I had a small batch of serviceable rifles. Functional—but uninspired.
That's where the fun began.
Taking cues from the Institute's design principles, I began modifying the emitter assemblies. The AER-12's ruby crystal lasing medium—still enriched, still viable—was fascinating in how much latent performance was left on the table. By realigning the collimator optics and modifying the beam focus using a gold-doped lens array, I shifted the output into the yellow spectrum. The resulting beam burned hotter and harder—at the cost of heat buildup and energy efficiency. It scorched anything on the receiving end. Flesh, steel, stone. Vaporized, cauterized, melted. Brutal and precise.
The design reminded me of something. A fragment from S1's neural archive—half-remembered media from before the merge. Soldiers in atmospheric drop armor, wielding beam rifles that fired brilliant streaks of golden light across alien landscapes. Helldivers, if I recall correctly. Fictional, yet strangely prophetic.
I'm no weapons engineer, and I don't claim to be one. I doubt I can take the design much further without better tooling or proper thermal compensation systems. But with my background in material science, it's enough. Just enough to elevate the original design beyond its military-industrial origins. The Nation rarely invested in directed-energy weapons outside of industrial use—mining cutters, shipboard welders, some old orbital defense concepts that never saw widespread adoption but very few attempts at actual mass produced weaponry..
Speaking of weapon engineering, I gave a go at fashioning a large shield and spear for FKSR. The shield was broad and slightly curved, cut from leftover pressure-rated plating I'd scrounged from one of the sub-levels. It should function well enough as mobile cover, especially when maneuvered via telekinesis. The spear… well, it was crude. Forged from sheet metal. the tip shaped with as much precision as the tools allowed. I'm no blacksmith—I'll admit that freely.
But what fascinated me wasn't the base form I handed her—it was what she did with it.
With bioresonance alone, FKSR refined both weapons. She didn't just improve their edges or smooth the frame—she restructured them on a molecular level. The spear became sleeker, honed to a monomolecular edge that shimmered with presence. The shield—still functionally the same—gleamed with a faint yellow pearlescence, the surface refracting light in curious, symmetrical patterns. Under certain angles, the sheen formed concentric rings—almost like an echo of the halo array she lacked.
I still don't know how she did it. I'm not even sure she does. I wasn't aware FLKR units were capable of this level of resonance-channeling. Either it's something I wasn't allowed to be aware of or… or it's Hirsch.
Either way, I think she's pleased. She rarely expresses much unless she's feeling smug. But I caught it—just barely—a shadow of a grin. And then, the gesture. Palm to cheek. A subtle, almost shy tilt of the head. If she could blush, I imagine she would've.
Still no progress on the damned halo array. I've got the basic frame down—repurposed conduit rings arranged in a trifoil configuration within each constituent piece, and I've yet to infuse it with the proper bioresonance fields—but I lack the materials to stabilize the field. The necessary microactuators and resonance amplifiers can't be fabricated here, not with Vault 95's dated systems. They'll have to be found.
Which means we need to leave.
With the local calendar synced to my Pip-Boy, I know the date. November 2nd, 2286. First snowfalls should be starting soon. That gives us maybe two weeks before the roads are choked with ice, radiation fog, and feral detritus desperate for heat. We're roughly a year out from the 'canon' events—enough time to change things. To butterfly them.
Quincy, by all accounts, should still be under Minutemen control. A functioning settlement. Organized. Established. If we can make contact, maybe even establish relations, we might avoid—or preempt—the Gunner incursion altogether.
Besides, I've restored the vault's water filtration system. Clean water. Sterile. Cold and perfect. That alone might function as our economic backbone—our foothold.
The final check for our incursion happened the next morning just before 0600. I wanted to enjoy the sunlight while it lasted—weak as it was this late in the year. While I could easily survive the creeping autumn chill, with winter approaching, that didn't mean I wanted to spend twelve miles trudging through the cold in the dead of night.
FKSR stood near the exit platform, her presence almost statuesque. The shield and spear were strapped to her back in a crossed configuration, and one of the modified AER-12s rested loosely in her hand. I doubted she'd actually need it—her bioresonance alone could render most combatants into meat paste—but appearances mattered. The average wastelander wasn't exactly equipped to comprehend telekinetic force projection or molecular restructuring on sight.
So: heavily augmented cyborg bodyguard. A line I rehearsed a few times in my head.
I'm trying to avoid the terminology that might raise alarms—"android," "synth," anything even adjacent to the Institute. Given the sour taste the Commonwealth Provisional Government fiasco left behind, I'm fairly certain the Minutemen still hold a grudge against anything even vaguely related to them. Understandably so.
I threw on my bodysuit fatigues and strapped one of the Vault security vests over my chest—not the most protective armor in the world, but it's better than nothing. The plates were composite, old-world polymer blends. Likely rated for pistol calibers and maybe, just maybe, a lucky deflection from a low-velocity rifle round. Emphasis on maybe.
Still, the real defense came from our bioresonance fields and FKSR's shield. Between the two of us, any ambush would have to be unusually precise—absurdly lucky—to actually succeed.
…Which means I've probably just jinxed it. Fantastic.
I slung the second AER-12 over my shoulder, the modified one with the reinforced heatsink assembly and yellow-spectrum lens array. Along with it, I strapped a basic duffel bag across my back—packed with medical supplies, field rations, and a few odds and ends I could trade if necessary.
Approaching the vault terminal, I slotted in my Pip-Boy—the new one, the one I'd wiped and rebuilt from the kernel up. I'd replaced its bloated, inefficient OS with something leaner. Something mine. It was now fully interfaceable via my implant—no need to plug in the Clip every time I wanted to run a diagnostic or access secured data nodes.
Getting it to work had been a nightmare. Between the archaic firmware and brittle pre-war hardware, it was like asking a dying calculator to speak in code to a quantum processor. But it worked. Barely.
I could probably design a proper PDA—something modular, scalable, compatible with the Institute's hardware and capable of syncing with native terminals. It wouldn't be elegant, but it would be revolutionary in terms of their computing standards.
…Thoughts for later. Right now, I'm just distracting myself from the fact that I'm about to step out into the Wasteland. Again.
The vault's blast door groaned behind us as it closed at 0600 sharp. The morning chill wasn't anything to much to my modified body but my breath still came out fogged. The morning light steaming through what dead trees still stood in this dead zone.
I'd plotted the journey using what maps were available on the pip-boy pre retrofit. I've been leaving it to update it's maps as we tread, something I co-opted from the original's software, impressive really considering the limits this thing had.
There were the remains of old green highway signs overhead, illegible from weathering, but familiar. We passed what was once a rest area—or maybe a tourist overlook. A ruined visitor center half-swallowed by creeping vines and cracked pavement. FKSR took point there, her eyes constantly scanning the tree line with that unsettling composure of hers. One AER slung across her shoulder, the shield across her back, a sleek black steel slab with a golden shine.
We stopped only briefly. I took a moment to sketch some adjustments into my pip-boy's OS—maybe turn the local sensor suite into a semi-passive radiation detector. FKSR stared out over the treeline. I think she was... cataloging the wind.
By 0900, we'd reached the remnants of a logging camp—mostly collapsed storage sheds, old lift equipment, and overgrown tracks. FKSR pushed aside a fallen pine tree with minimal effort, like she was brushing aside a curtain. It creaked and groaned, snapping where its rot had weakened it. No hostiles. Not yet.
We didn't talk much. There wasn't much to say.
By late morning, the ground began to slope downward. The trees began to thin, and distant glimmers of light on water told me we were getting close. The bridge was just ahead. A faded road sign lay face-down in the brush, warped but still legible in a familiar font:
"Quincy - 7 miles east"
We crested the last ridge before the river crossing just before noon. The sun was high and cold and brilliant, casting long shadows over the remnants of the bridge—still standing, though the rails were rusted and half of one lane had collapsed into the riverbed. It spanned a narrow tributary—likely once part of the pre-war town's western drainage infrastructure.
FKSR stopped just shy of the edge, scanning the structure. Her hand hovered briefly near her AER, but there was no movement across the span.
I stepped up beside her.
"Looks intact," I muttered. "Enough, anyway."
She didn't answer. Just gave a quiet, satisfied exhale through her nose. I think she was enjoying the light. Her cheek caught a shimmer of reflection—just a flash—off the shield strapped to her back. It caught the sunlight in a way that made it look almost ceremonial.
We crossed in silence. Every footstep echoing off metal.
By the time we'd made it roughly halfway to Quincy from the bridge, we finally encountered movement—three figures up ahead on the road, their silhouettes outlined by the midday sun. I gestured for FKSR to stand down. She did, though her stance remained alert.
It was a Minutemen patrol.
The lead man raised a hand in greeting as they closed the distance. He looked more polished than I expected—clad in a tailored navy-blue coat and matching wide-brimmed hat, silver trim catching the light. Functional, but oddly fashionable. I was anticipating patchwork rags and old combat armor—video game memory failing me once again.
"Heya, folks," he called out with a casual grin, lowering his rifle. "You heading to Quincy?"
I stepped forward slightly, adjusting the strap on my duffel.
"Ja, hello," I said, slipping into a more measured cadence. "I'm Doctor Vogt. I plan on plying my trade in Quincy, assuming your town is as open to visitors as it seems."
The Minuteman's eyes shifted. Not toward me—but upward.
He was staring at FKSR.
She stood a few paces behind me, perfectly composed, one hand loosely resting near the hilt of her spear, the other gripping the modified AER across her chest. Seven and a half feet of augmented grace and quiet intimidation.
"The frau here is my bodyguard," I added smoothly. "Falksir. She's undergone... extensive enhancements to improve her operational efficiency."
The Minuteman's brow twitched. His gaze lingered a moment too long on the subtle glow on her forehead, and the shield on her back.
I offered him a smile that translated, I hoped, as: Don't ask.
He nodded slowly, adjusting his grip on his laser musket. "The name's Jonas… We've had stranger," he said at last, though his voice had taken on a note of professional wariness.
"Appreciated," I replied. "We're just looking for safe harbor and perhaps some work. I have skills in medicine, engineering, and systems calibration. She keeps me alive long enough to make use of them."
"Well, Quincy ain't Diamond City, but it's still one of the bigger places this side of the Charles," another patrolman chimed in, younger, eyes flicking between me and FKSR with open curiosity. "And we're always short on folks who actually know how to fix things."
The leader—Jonas—gave us a once-over. "Alright, Doctor. Walk with us. We'll see you safely to the perimeter."
FKSR gave a subtle nod—just once. Enough to make one of the younger Minutemen flinch, despite himself.
And with that, we walked—two wanderers and a squad of volunteers in coats too clean for the world they lived in.
The town came into view by early afternoon—low brick buildings clustered around a central green, the skyline fractured by the jutting remnants of a clocktower and the worn ribs of colonial-era architecture still struggling to stand.
Quincy.
In-game, it was a compressed ruin, a husk swallowed by Gunners. But here? It felt lived in. Defended. Not thriving, perhaps, but holding on with grim stubbornness.
A wall of scavenged metal and stone-ringed the outskirts—clearly Minutemen handiwork. Repurposed bus shells and wrecked APCs formed irregular barricades, camouflaged beneath layers of paint and dangling tarps. The gate was manual, with two more Minutemen posted at either side, rifles slung low, eyes sharp.
"Not bad," I muttered under my breath. "For a town built on the bones of the Old World."
FKSR said nothing, but her eyes scanned everything. Windows, rooftops, movement. I could feel her awareness pressing outward, her presence subtle but always encompassing. It comforted me more than I liked to admit.
We passed through the gate under escort, boots crunching over gravel and old cracked asphalt. Civilians watched from shaded porches and windows—cautious, quiet. A few children ran through the green with a handmade ball, their laughter a strange dissonance against the scent of burnt cordite and rusted metal. Most of the buildings were patched together with weathered wood and repurposed concrete, some still bearing faded signage from centuries past. I spotted the shell of a pharmacy, a church-turned-command post, and what might've once been a bakery now doubling as a water ration station.
Quincy had presence. Personality. A heartbeat.
"We've got a few folks with tech skills, but nothing near what you're talking about," the lead Minuteman was saying. "Plenty of wounded, too. Raiders clipped one of our scavenger teams last week. If you can really patch people up, I'd say you'll make friends fast."
"I'm not opposed to barter," I replied. "Or credits, if you use caps. Just don't expect me to work for exposure."
He chuckled. "We're not that desperate. Not yet."
FKSR's spear clinked softly against her shield with every step. I caught another few stares—some intrigued, others nervous. None bold enough to approach.
We were being sized up. Fair enough. I'd do the same.
Eventually we were led toward a squat building just off the main square. A converted municipal office, if I had to guess. The smell of hot stew and solder drifted through the open door.
"Council's inside," the Minuteman said. "You want to make things official, talk to them. Don't start anything and you'll find Quincy pretty welcoming. If you ain't getting through just say that Jonas sent ya, should work."
I turned slightly toward FKSR, caught her expression. Subtle, unreadable. But her posture had shifted—looser now. Curious.
"I think we'll get along just fine," I said quietly.
And we stepped inside.
The smell of stew intensified as we stepped into the town hall—what had once been a municipal office now converted into a command post and community center. To the left, just beyond the entrance, a repurposed clerk's booth doubled as a soup line. A volunteer ladled something vaguely brown into tin bowls for a few weary scavvers.
I made a note to return for food. For now, politics.
Past the front atrium lay the central floor—once a civic lobby, now stripped down and refitted into a crude but functional council chamber. Five circular tables were arranged in a loose semicircle, facing a slightly raised dais at the rear. At the center table sat an older woman, her posture straight-backed and composed despite the frayed collar of her militia-style jacket. Likely the mayor—or someone who filled that role convincingly enough. Behind her, a battered pre-War flag hung high, patched over with hand-stitched Minutemen iconography.
They were in the middle of hearing a petitioner—an older man, weathered and broad-shouldered. A Minutemen Colonel, judging by the epaulets stitched onto the long blue coat he wore. A Navy revolver rested holstered at his hip, and the way he spoke made it clear this wasn't his first time standing here.
"Lady Mayor," he began, his voice thick with restrained frustration, "I know I've stood here and brought this up more times than I care to count—but I'll say it again. Those Enclave folk down south got no business being anywhere near Quincy. I'm from the Capital Wasteland. I've seen firsthand what their kind did there. We shouldn't be letting them trade here—they don't bring anything good."
Mentally filing away that there are Enclave remnants present before focusing on the conversation.
"Colonel, the so-called 'Enclave folk' you're talking about have been nothing but civil so far," the mayor said, her voice steady, the weight of experience behind it. "If I remember my history right, they were wiped out in the Capital Wasteland years ago. What we're seeing now? Remnants. Old blood and whatever young ones they've raised since."
She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the worn wood of the table.
"As long as they don't start trouble—and they haven't—we'll keep a close eye on them. But let's not pretend we're in any position to pick a fight. The Minutemen aren't what they used to be, not since the Castle fell."
Her gaze drifted around the room before settling back on the Colonel. "And if what we're hearing is true—if they're fielding power armor in their convoys—then any sort of confrontation would be suicide."
The Colonel's jaw clenched tight, but he didn't respond. Not directly. His boots clicked sharply against the floor as he turned, sweeping his gaze toward me as he passed—first catching the crimson gleam of my implants, then lingering on FKSR. His expression tightened, unreadable, and then he was gone.
I gave it a beat—just long enough for the tension to bleed out of the room—then stepped forward.
"Good afternoon, council members," I said, my voice level, measured. "My name is Doctor Emil Vogt. I'm here to ply my trade, as it were."
A few pairs of eyes flicked from me to FKSR, then back again. I kept my tone polite but purposeful.
"I specialize in cybernetics and neural interface systems, though I am also qualified in more conventional medicine. However, beyond that, I'd like to propose a potential exchange."
I adjusted the strap of my duffel bag and met the mayor's eyes.
"If it were possible to provide Quincy with a steady supply of purified water—significant volumes—does your town or your forces possess the vehicles or infrastructure to distribute or transport such quantities?"
That got their attention. A ripple of interest passed through the gathered councilors. The mayor tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly in calculation.
"You're saying you can supply clean water?" she asked. "Regularly?"
"I've reactivated a purification system at a secure location," I said carefully. "The system's output is more than enough for a town your size. With some minor logistical coordination, it could be transported—stored, bartered, or rationed as needed. In exchange, I'd ask for accommodations, supplies, and potentially cooperation in future ventures."
Behind me, FKSR stood motionless, unreadable—her spear and shield slung on her back, posture calm but radiating a quiet menace. The optics alone likely helped sell my authority more than any pitch I could deliver.
The mayor exchanged glances with a few of her fellow councilors before speaking again.
"Well, Doctor Vogt," the mayor said, leaning back in her chair with arms crossed, "you've certainly brought a more compelling offer than most. Quincy can always use another doctor—and water? That could let us help a lot more people than just ourselves."
One of the councilors, a wiry man with oil-stained hands and a suspicious squint, leaned forward. "And this facility of yours—where exactly is it located?"
I offered a polite, closed-lip smile. "Let's call it a secure holding west of here. I'd prefer not to share precise coordinates until I've had the chance to assess your town's security protocols."
That drew a few raised brows, but also a couple of nods—the kind of nods survivors give when they recognize caution as a survival instinct, not an insult.
"We'll need to bring this before the full council formally," the mayor continued, her voice firm but not unkind. "But off the record? You're welcome to stay while we sort through the logistics. Come back later today—we'll go over the details once things quiet down. For now, we're swamped."
She gave me a pointed look. "If you've got medical skills, lend a hand in the meantime. Help people. Build goodwill. That'll go a long way."
I nodded once. "Understood. That was my intention anyway."
She gestured toward one of the side doors. "Speak to Marla at the logistics desk downstairs. She'll set you up with some temporary lodgings and some meal tokens."
"Much appreciated," I said with a slight incline of my head.
As I turned, I caught a final glimpse of FKSR. She still hadn't moved—but her eyes hadn't left the council table. Calm, calculating, ever-present.
I knew without asking that she'd memorized every face in the room.
A.N: As it turns out the Enclave being present in the Commonwealth, is a canon thing. I thought it was more of a creation club free addon but nope. Anyways, I'm gonna be playing up the angle that the remnants are mostly just older blood mixed in with a majority younger generation of Enclave remnants. Maybe a scientist here or there too.